Amelia Holmes, Apprentice Consulting Detective
by amyandrorypond
Summary: A story in which Sherlock has a teenage daughter, who loves his line of work more than life itself. Often she gets to interfere. Still working on this, so stay tuned!
1. Introducing Amelia Holmes

My life is much different than most kids'. Although I am a relatively normal girl, my life at home is quite extraordinary. First, I hate school. It's the worst time of my life. Lots of kids like school, because of their friends, or a cute boy. My friends and I aren't really close, because my father says to not trust anyone fully. And the boys at school don't matter to me. At school, I can't read any book that I want. When we watch a film in class, it's often educational. Or a classic. But not the good ones, the boring ones. I can't watch a television show. At school, my choices are limited. It's supposed to teach you things, and my elementary teachers told us we had to learn it for high school. But now I am in high school, and why do we have to learn this? When do we have to use mental calculations in real life? We've got calculators. We've got phones. We've got all sorts of machines. Not only machines. We have people like my father, geniuses. I just don't get it. I mean, most kids say that, but they endure it. I want to quit, God, I wanted to quit so much. I knew most everything, anyway. My father knows it is important to go to school, but in the end, he doesn't really care about trigonometry.

He solves crimes, my dad - we do it together, sometimes. He lets me in if the police detectives do. He doesn't work with them, they come to him. What he does is magnificent. The way he formulates an answer is amazing. He talks to me about his cases, and being quite an antisocial man, he tries his best to bond with me. But there is something missing from him, a chink in his armor. He doesn't seem to empathize with anyone. And as hard as he tries, he doesn't seem to care. He has no sympathy in his voice, and no hug is given when he congratulates me. Nonetheless, I love him.

My father and I lived alone in a flat before yesterday. Yesterday, we moved into a new flat on Baker Street. We had a lovely landlady named Mrs. Hudson, and my father actually got a deal on the flat because he ensured her husband's execution. I don't like to ask about that case either, by the way. However, even with the deal, the flat was in a very nice spot and in high demand. The rent is highly priced. My father and I are getting a flatmate today.

"His name is John Watson," my father told me. "He is an ex - soldier. He comes from Afghanistan, and he has a psychosomatic limp. His therapist says so. And his room will be up there," he points up the staircase to the room at the end of the hall. "So don't take that one."

I smile slightly and start up the staircase to find my room, but my father's hand grabs my shoulder before I can climb the first step. "And Amy..."

"You deduced all that about him, didn't you?" I say.

He sighs. "Yes. And he was quite fascinated with it all, may I add. So... don't add anything else to that deduction."

I grin and walk up the staircase, but halfway up, I hear the doorbell ring.

"It's John," my father says, before he opens the door.

As Mrs. Hudson opens the door, my father walks up behind her to greet our new flatmate, but I stay standing on the sixth step of the staircase. "Amy, come here, dear! Meet John!" Mrs. Hudson calls. I suddenly turn shy and step down the staircase slowly. As I approach the door, John catches my eye and smiles. "Ah, you must be Amy, as Sherlock told me - nice to meet you."

"Hello, Dr. Watson," I say, flashing a quick smile. "I've heard..." I am about to tell him what I've heard from my father, but I remember what he said. I stop.

My father interjects. "Well then, Amy. Why don't you continue unpacking? I'll help Dr. Watson here with his things and show him his room."

"Please, if we're going to live together, at least call me John." The ex - soldier says. I laugh slightly, but walk upstairs and empty my suitcase.

I hear footsteps. They are my father's, I can tell, and another pair, definitely John's. They are syncopated.

_He has a psychosomatic limp. His therapist says so. _I remember my father's words. I begin to feel differently about John. He was a soldier. What horrors has he been forced to see? How many deaths has he mourned? Is he still affected by them?

Lots of people that were once haunted by such things never really lose the memories. They have seen too much. Like a werewolf at midnight, they can change at a moment's notice. Any mention of war or death or pain can trigger something in their mind. Something... clicks.

I am the same with my mother.

She died when I was five. I am sixteen now, but those long years in between have not comforted me. I get 'touchy' when I hear my mother's name. I get touchy when I hear my own name. I was once called Amelia. Amelia Holmes. My mother used to call me Amelia all the time, even though I was Amy to my friends. She has a little song that she would sing to me at night, when I would go to sleep when I was very little.

_Amelia, Amelia,_  
_My beautiful Amelia,_  
_My sunshine and my happiness,_  
_Amelia, Amelia,_  
_She's slowly falling, Amelia,_  
_Until her mind is full of emptiness._

Sometimes at night I sing it to myself, quieter than whispering. I have a photo of my mother. I have many photos of my mother, of course, but this is my favorite one. I sleep with it under my pillow. I miss her so much. Obviously, I do not think about her as much as I once did, but a mother is a mother. Forgetting her is impossible.

I return my attention to the footsteps. They have moved along the hall, but now I hear voices. I creep towards the door. My father and John have entered the room at the end of the hall, which happens to be next to the washroom. I tiptoe into the washroom and close the door, but keep my ear pressed against the cool, dark wood.

"...no, she hasn't." My father's voice.

"Oh. Well, all right. How long has it been?" this was John's voice.

"Too long. I worry sometimes, I really do. She doesn't notice, but I do. I'm scared sometimes, John. When she was smaller I just took her to the scene, told her about it, and we left. But now... she's interested. She wants to help. And often she really does help. But if she were to get hurt, I don't know what I would do."

They were talking about me.

"I could help with that," John said. "I could keep her at home."

"No, no. She needs the excitement. And anyway, you're helping me with my cases as well."

There was a pause.

_"What?"_

I smiled slightly, and leaned against the door. My father did care. I knew, deep inside, he had a heart. But I don't know why he never shows it.


	2. The First Crime Scene

Last night, all three of us went to a crime scene. Detective Inspector Lestrade invited Dad, and let me come in. Dad practically shoved John under the yellow tape, making him help with the case. Lestrade let him. I liked Lestrade, he was pretty nice. Some of the people he worked with, though, they were awful. Like Anderson... Oh, God. Phillip Anderson was both rude and unobservant, overall just the worst. Dad hated him, and so did I. Then there was Donovan. She wasn't that bad. She joked around a lot, which was nice, but she called Dad 'freak'. I hated that about her, how she thought he was weird - I mean, he was pretty strange, but in a good way.

When we arrived at the room containing a dead body, my father stopped walking.

"Shut up." He said to Lestrade.  
"I didn't say anything." He replied, puzzled.  
"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Lestrade had a surprised look on his face. He looked a me, but I just shrugged. Things like this happen often.

My father walked towards the body. It was a woman, entirely clad in pink. He starts to examine the body silently. When he's making a deduction, neither he nor anyone else speaks.

He motions for me to come over and look at the dead woman. There is something carved into the rotting wooden floorboards, a word: _rache. _What could it mean? I knew that the word was German, but how likely was it that she was giving the police a message in a foreign language? I thought about what else it could say, and finally decided on Rachel. I look up again at my father, who is inspecting her jewelry. His facial expressions tell me that he definitely has some information about her that the detectives don't. I continue to examine, and find that her coat is wet. She has been walking in the rain. I see my father's face change, now bearing a slightly satisfied smile. He stands up.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks, hopeful.

"Not much." My father says. I laugh, but quietly. He starts to type on his cell phone, but I don't know what he's looking at.

Anderson is standing in the doorway. "She's German. 'Rache', it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something..."

My father, without looking up from his cell phone, saunters towards the door. "Yes, thank you for your input," He says, and shuts the door in Anderson's face. I try to hold back my laughter, and fail, letting out a snicker. My father shot me a look, but he winked and I knew he felt the same.

Everyone is silent for a moment. Then Lestrade speaks: "So she's German?"

My father is still looking at his phone. He speaks in a dismissive tone. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night," my father smiles and puts the cell phone in his pocket. "Before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

The doctor decides to speak. "Sorry - obvious?"

"Yes," I say. "I mean, at least to my dad. First it was her coat. She was all wet, but her umbrella was dry. Dad took it right out of her pocket, which meant the wind was..."

My father looks at me. I could tell that he didn't want me to say any more. In the past, I had been bullied because of this ability. People took me as some kind of 'mind - reader', which is ridiculous. That's not what it is. However, I could deduce many things about my peers. Teenagers have secrets, and me being able to figure out things that nobody else can makes me weird. I stop talking.

Lestrade is used to my father calling these things obvious. "What about the message, though?" He asks.

My father ignores him. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John replies.

"Of the body. You're a medical man."

Lestrade interjects. "Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside."

"They won't work with me," My father says.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." The police detective says, trying to make my father obey his rules.

"Yes, because you need me."

Lestrade looks down. "Yes, I do. God help me."

I see my father smile for a fraction of a second, then look to John. "Doctor Watson."

"Hm?" John looks up from the pink - clothed body, lying face - down on the ground. He looks towards Lestrade a bit, like he's asking permission to do whatever my father wants.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself," the detective walks towards the door, and I open it. He smiles at me in thanks, and leans into the hall. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes." I hear Anderson let out an exasperated sigh.

My father and the doctor squat beside the dead woman. My father turns slightly, towards me, and motions for me to come and look at the dead woman as well. I happily oblige.


End file.
